


A Consummation Devoutly to be Wished

by ScribbleWillow (Soul_in_the_Starlight)



Series: The Universe is Cracked [1]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Crack, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:11:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soul_in_the_Starlight/pseuds/ScribbleWillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he sacrifices himself for the universe, the Doctor explores one last time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Consummation Devoutly to be Wished

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by someone who no doubt wishes to remain nameless...
> 
> Set during Series 5 Episode The Big Bang. It always bothered me that we see the shadow of the Doctor flit across the kitchen window in The Eleventh Hour, just after Amelia goes out in to the back garden, and yet when he goes to fetch her, she's deeply asleep. So, what was he doing between her going out there, and finding her crashed out on her suitcase...?

He spends a good while hiding in Amelia's kitchen.  
  
She has to leave the house; he can't cross her path, there is _literally_ no time to explain it all to her brilliant and inquisitive little mind.  
  
No, it's best to wait. _She'd_ waited all night, she'd fallen asleep. The grown up Amy had taken almost malicious delight in telling him so. And that will be the time. That will be the way. Feed her stories. Seed her dreams.  
  
 _Nothing is ever forgotten._  
  
The back door slams, and the Doctor crosses the kitchen, into the hallway, heading upstairs to her bedroom.  
  
There it is. The crack in her wall.  
  
It taunts him, with it's twisted smile, open so much wider than the first time he had seen it.  
  
He can feel the energy from it, crackling in the air around him, fizzling; making the tiny hairs on his face and hands lift, causing his skin to tingle.  
  
He draws closer - damn his curiosity - but he wants a better look at this thing that will devour him, and rip him from existence. A look at his merry executioner, before it closes it's ragged jaws around him.  
  
 _Will it hurt?_  
  
Dying always hurts. But will being swallowed into oblivion be a new and more terrible kind of pain?  
  
The Doctor runs his hands along the gaping edges of the crack. He had previously plunged an arm inside, catching a piece of his own TARDIS before Rory had died for him.  
  
 _And now he will return the favour.  
_  
The energy field from the crack is not unpleasant. He remembers; how it had reached out for Rory, almost tenderly, drawing him into it.  
  
 _Perhaps this will be a beautiful way to die.  
_  
But not yet, he still has to talk to Amelia, give her something to remember...  
  
The energy pulses through his fingers, as they trace around the edges of the crack; over and over, familiarising himself with it's contours. He will _not_ go in to it afraid, not into some shapeless, unfamiliar fracture in space-time; he will learn it's shape, the feel of it's fire, and fall willingly into it's embrace.  
  
He presses his face to the wall above the crack. It has widened even as he caresses it, as if it's opening to his touch...  
  
The last time he had been in this room - in its future - had been the night Amy had tried to seduce him. He had almost given in, the forceful urgency of her lips had almost been too much to resist. And she was right.  
  
 _It has been a while._  
  
Amelia has grown up very nicely, even if her life doesn't make any sense. But then, _nothing_ makes any sense right now. He stands here, on the brink of his own demise, fingering a crack in a child's bedroom wall, with a sudden raging hard-on for her grown up self.  
  
 _And who needs to die feeling horny?_  
  
The Doctor eases down his trousers and under wear,  just far enough to relieve the strain, and free himself. He leans against the wall, hips pressed forward into the crack, the maelstrom of energy within sending a thrilling shock from the tip to the very root of him.  
  
The crack has now gaped as wide as his torso is long, and he presses his forehead against the wall above it, hands steadying himself as he looks down at his loins; he watches his own cock, as he slowly thrust his hips back and forth into the crack, the energy unfurling around him. The same delicate tendrils of light that had carefully taken Rory, now swirl along his length, exciting his nerves in the most unbelievably intimate way.  
  
He lowers one hand, with a thought to touching himself; but stops short, as the cyclone of forces in the crack coalesce along his shaft, drawing his hips deeper inside, and he now clings to the wall with both hands, to keep himself steady in the turmoil.  
  
Jolts of what feel like static electricity run over and through his body, like touching a Van de Graaf generator (Robert never did thank him for the loan of that silk ribbon), and he feels even the fibres in his tweed jacket lifting, in response to the charges that surround him.  
  
This body has not yet indulged in carnal delights, but it's certainly keen. His response to Amy's advances had initially been to surrender, before his mind had taken control. But he gives himself over to the feelings this time, after all, is the condemned man not entitled to a last taste of pleasure before he dies?  
  
He lets out a groan, as the crack sucks and pulls at his hardness, curling his hands into fists, pounding at the wall as he thrusts himself into it; harder and faster, the sensations not quite sufficient for full release, and so he rakes over memories for inspiration.  
  
 _The girls_.  
  
Amy had tricked him into showing them to her, a procession of attractive young women; and _of course_ he had noticed. And yes, some of them had dressed, perhaps, _provocatively_ ; but it was the fashions of their time and place. Legs and cleavage, leather bikinis... _he isn't made of stone._  
  
But he _looked_ , he didn't touch... _wouldn't_ touch... _could_ have touched; many had made it obvious he had permission.  
  
What if he had just caught his hand on a thigh as he helped it up a ladder? Slid fingers across a breast in a crowded room? Kissed lips in need of comfort after a brush with death?  
  
 _Or thrown a persistent temptress down on the brass bedstead in this very room, and ravished her until..._  
  
The Doctor cries out, as the orgasm takes him by surprise, and braces against the wall, spilling himself into the crack. As he lets go into it, he realises that it's drawing him further in; he can feel his existence shimmering, at the edge of the void, his very atoms beginning to lose cohesion.  
  
He pushes himself back as hard as he can, taking quick, stumbling steps back, until he falls across Amelia's bed. Every nerve burns with the exquisite fire that will soon consume him.  
  
He lays there for a while, panting, his manhood still exposed, his clothes dishevelled and his eyes closed against the light from the crack. When he finally sits up to face it, he sees that it has narrowed again, the light dimmer than when he had thrust himself into it.  
  
 _It's waiting._  
  
He stands, making his way to the bathroom, where he cleans himself up and re-arranges his clothes. He splashes water over his face, smoothes a hand through his hair, and takes a long, last look at himself in the mirror.  
  
 _I've grown accustomed to this face._  
  
He straightens his bow-tie; it will forever be cool. And with an odd sense of peace laying across his twin hearts, makes his way downstairs to fetch Amelia.


End file.
